Premonition
by Eridewrite
Summary: This is a scene from the beginning of Reveille, the finale of Season 1, from Gibbs' perspective. It's the beginning, when he dreams that...well, you'll see. Unless of course you've seen the show, then you're just ahead of the game!


Season 1-Reveille9/26/2006

I hear my heartbeat as I turn towards the door, knowing that what lies beyond it will be painful. The cold air creates a surreal visage about the elevator, causing me to keep my breathing shallow in an attempt to maintain what little heat I hold. I reach out, touching the metal doors. Quickly I retract my hand, shaking the coarse chill from my skin. Gathering my wits, I press my palm to the surface once more, pushing it as though I may be able to alter reality with its' movement. Finally I hear the ding as the doors slide back, causing me to jerk my hand back. A room shadowed as though by the cloak of night is revealed to me, just beyond the doorway. I feel a drastic drop in the temperature as I enter, dragging what heat remains in my body down with it. Stepping forward, I see it for the first time. I see the bag, zipped to the top, protecting the inhabitant from the chill. I avoid thinking about it. Instead I view the bag as a cover, protecting reality from setting in. Holding the twisted truth out. I let my head turn from the truth, finding the good doctor standing with his back to the wall, the light from his x-ray machine in contrast with his plastic visor and the blue scrubs he wears. I know that he is not protected, yet my mind believes that he is. Sheltered by the dissidence, by the difference between the light that outlines him and the darkness of the room. Out of the harsh reality that encumbers us all.

For once he is silent, holding his gaze slightly downcast. I am certain that I am within his range of vision, yet he keeps his eyes shifted away, as though reading a hidden message that rests behind me. Finally he levels his eyes with mine, letting me know in that short glance his true feelings. Naturally there is sadness there, mixed with the unease of a familiar yet distant experience. We are all ready, but truly not. All prepared while completely unprepared.

I shift my gaze and thoughts back to the bag, realizing that I have only just entered the room. Time seems to be stalled, caught in this moment and this frozen room. I step forward, cautiously but with purpose. My heart rate increases as I move under the light cast from the overhead bulb, the same light that falls so starkly upon the bag. I am entranced by the green material, and find myself wondering how such harsh lines can hold something so vibrant and self-assertive. I know what I must do. Aware of the task at hand, I lift my gaze as though seeking comfort, approval…something. Ducky meets my eyes once more, his countenance naturally shifting to an expression of loss and mourning. He lifts his eyebrows and allows his jaw to go slack, clearly hoping that I refrain from checking. However, I must. Before his torn look convinces me otherwise, I return my attention to the body bag. Lifting my hands, I gently gather the zipper and material, carefully loosing the connections between the metal teeth. I inwardly sigh as I reflect upon the other tasks these hands have performed: the smoothing of my boat, the cuffing of terrorists. All others are irrelevant when compared to this task. The bag opens quickly, far faster and easier than I expected. I feel as though my hands are acting of their own accord as I lift the corner flap that was just released by the zipper, exposing the contents to my expectant and worried eyes.

My gaze locks onto Caitlin Todd, her steady look one that I recognize as her frank stare. This time it is wrong though; her eyes do not seek the underlying meaning of my expression. I know that she will never search for such meaning again. Her eyes are cold, and as much as I yearn to deny it, lifeless. The wound that mars her forehead seems insignificant, yet is as harmful as a stain on the Mona Lisa. No, I know this is far worse than such a stain. This is a life; this is the end of something far more beautiful than any painting. This is death.

I swing my eyes rapidly as I try to avoid the pain, to keep from acknowledging this loss. Such tragedy is often felt in the soul. I have to keep it out, keep the true heft of this death from crippling me. I have to focus, for Kate's sake. I have to get that bastard. The one who grins in my thoughts. He is more than a terrorist, he is my Bete Noire.


End file.
